Don't Look At Me
by Black Stormraven
Summary: Where does a monster turn when he needs something more than his hatred can provide?


The nightmares only grew worse in the weeks after the destruction of Starkiller Base. He'd had them before, of course, but now they came with an intensity the fearsome Knight of Ren had no hope to battle. Each time he woke with a choked scream in his throat and the scar across his face burning and throbbing. In the first days, he'd cursed the girl who'd given it to him while he sat in his bunk, forcing the pain to subside through sheer willpower. In time, he'd begun to curse himself. Each time he'd feared closing his eyes again. Why would he desire to go back to those incorporeal planes filled with screams of agony and rage, colored red by blood and fire? He'd taken to stalking through the hallways of the _Finalizer_ instead, attempting to steal some of the peace of the sleeping troopers and officers as he moved. Sometimes, it worked and he was able to sleep for a few hours without any dreams at all.

And sometimes, like tonight, nothing seemed to worked.

Kylo Ren tried to lose himself in the twists and turns of the ship's interior, tried not to think about anything except putting one foot in front of the other. The few troopers on duty he passed no longer acknowledged his presence, nor did he acknowledge theirs. He'd tried tiring himself out with destroying what training dummies Hux hadn't stashed away (to save some of them for the more lazy or dedicated troopers, the general had said with a sneer). He'd tried meditating, to draw strength from his fear and his anger in order to control them. The only option he had now was to walk.

So, he walked.

Hours seemed to have passed before he felt something other than crushing staleness of spirit and atmosphere. He blinked once, bringing the nondescript door in front of him into focus. He did not know this door. In fact, glancing around he was certain he'd never been to this section of the ship before. But there was a sense of...something like peace, but also hard and determined, as if it were something that were wrangled into submission rather than descended of its own volition.

Curiosity took over everything else and Ren raised a hand to the entry pad. The door didn't budge. _Interesting._ The briefest touch of the Force at the locking mechanism hidden in the wall sent the door open with a near-silent hiss. The darkness beyond was broken only by the faint flickering of console lights, the personal computer in sleep mode yet ready to boot up in an instant. There was nothing in the way of personalization, no indication of what function this room held...until he looked to the left and saw the occupied bed. And further down at its foot was the only clue he needed to know who slept so soundly: empty eyes stared at and through him from a chromium-plated helmet, the reflective metal winking with the computer's indicator lights. The rest of the armor lay neatly arranged on both a chair and a shelf, the unique blaster thankfully the piece of equipment farthest away from its owner.

Realization struck him: all this time, and he'd never seen the face beneath that helmet. Curiosity overrode his distress for the time being. Three silent steps brought him to the Captain's side. Whatever he'd been expecting, he certainly hadn't ever thought to be so transfixed.

Pale blonde hair cropped close to the scalp framed a face that toed the line between feminine and masculine. Long lashes laid against surprisingly high cheeks, the curves of those ending in a weak chin that helped her visage not look quite as severe as it would have otherwise. Full lips rested below a nose that would have been absurdly long and wide on anyone else, but on her, with her height and structure, it looked perfect. Faint scars dotted what little of her shoulders he could see; he wondered how she had come by those, what she had done to those responsible for them in retaliation, what other marks she might have had on her body beneath the sheet. The question of her eye color also reared its head...

Kylo was no expert in the field, but he was fairly certain that 'beautiful' was a word few others would have ascribed to the Captain. In the low light, in the peace she exuded as she slumbered, and perhaps due to his damnable vulnerability right now, Phasma was indeed stunning.

The longer he gazed down at her, the most loyal officer the First Order had or would ever know, he felt a kind of calm settle over him. The urge to run a finger down her cheek swept through him before he could stop it. He clenched his fingers into a fist, stomping it down until there was nothing left; no desire, no anger, no fear, no weakness. And yet...he couldn't quite bring himself to leave.

He was careful to make no sound as he sat down on the floor at the foot of her bed; the hand under her thin pillow was almost certainly wrapped around a blaster and he had no wish to discover just how his Force abilities compared to Phasma's own deftness with a weapon. He'd leave before she woke, he promised himself. He just wanted to be near that peace. He'd take what he needed, then he would return to his own quarters. No one, especially Phasma, need be any the wiser.

Kylo hadn't realized he'd fallen asleep. Panic rose in his breast when his eyes opened, grogginess quickly dissipating. He needed to get out of here before the Captain awoke and saw...

He looked down as he registered the extra weight on his body. A blanket. Where...

He looked up at the bed, carefully wiping the fear he genuinely felt from his expression. Phasma was in the same position she had been in when he'd taken his place on the floor. Her right hand was even the same distance under her pillow...wasn't it?

Shame took over when the truth hit. She _had_ found him. He wasn't sure what he disliked most about that realization: that he had been discovered, that she quite possibly had deduced his reason for being there, that she had pitied him enough not only to not shoot him in the head but to drape a blanket over him while he slept, or that he had been so dense as to not sense her movements when she had gotten up. Thankfully, even if she were fully awake and alert right now, she couldn't see the flush of embarrassment that colored his face as he stood on unsteady legs; he didn't even want to contemplate the consequences of _that_.

His mask stayed firmly on his head after that. He couldn't bear to have Phasma see his face after she had seen him in such a pathetic state. To her credit, she never once mentioned it, never gave any hint in her tone or her body language that it had happened. For that, Kylo was eternally grateful. Though he still wouldn't remove his mask except in the presence of Supreme Leader Snoke or in the privacy of his own quarters. He'd heard the whispers among the troops, that he was ashamed of the scar that marred his face, that not only was he mentally and emotionally unstable, but that he was more vain than a Zygerrian princess.

That was fine. Let them think whatever they wanted. Anything was far preferable to the truth.

Weeks would pass before he was able to meet the Captain's artificial face with his own. He was brave enough for that, at least. Still she gave no comment, no coy tilt of her chromium head to taunt and mock him; he commended her for that. A small, very tiny part of him longed to go to her again when the nightmares and memories became too much. But he had already been found out once, and that was simply one time too many.

Kylo Ren steeled himself to bear his burden alone, as he should have been doing all these years. He would prove to everyone (Snoke, Hux, the stormtroopers, the Resistance, Phasma, himself) that he was strong, that he was not weakened by his emotions. _He_ held control. _He_ had power over his past and his future.

Those words became his mantra every time he laid his head down to sleep.


End file.
